A Day in the Life of An Opera Ghost
by sparklyscorpion
Summary: Erik can only spend so much time composing and obsessing about Christine… My attempt at a humor story based on the ALW stage show.


_Author's note:_ The Phantom of the Opera _belongs to Gaston Leroux; this particular version belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber._

_I wrote this story for tkp during the masked_ball fic exchange on livejournal. It was my first time writing humor, so it might not be that funny, but I really did try my best. The original prompt was: ""Erik practices swirling his cape and tossing his fedora. In his spare time between doing this he colors the edges of his letters and envelopes black, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he intently scribbles. He also plays with his wind up monkey and lets the mannequin score his fedora-throwing points." There are a couple of "inside jokes" here: the new cape removal method Erik tries is shamelessly stolen from Anthony Crivello's portrayal, and Erik's reference to many underlined words and exclamation points refers to the notes used on stage (the one where Erik says that he'll give the managers one last chance in particular – he underlines the word "last" several times, and I find that to be rather funny)._

_Squishy thanks to my beta, Mongie!_

* * *

They'd sent him the wrong stationery.

Again.

Erik seethed as he stared down at the package that contained the plain cream paper and matching envelopes. _Cream_. This was the kind of stationery that women used to invite their friends over for…tea? Coffee? Some sort of pastry? Whatever excuse it was that women used to get together and gossip.

Erik couldn't speak for other specters, but this particular phantom did _not _use plain cream stationery.

He angrily grabbed his fedora from his head and tossed it across the room, aiming for one of the candelabra near his organ. Watching it sail through the air, Erik was thankful that he hadn't yet lit those candles; the last time he had thrown his fedora in a fit of rage, his lair had smelled like smoldering felt for days. His nose twitched at the memory.

The hat bounced off the metal candelabra, fell to the floor, and skidded to a stop against the organ's stool. His sigh sounded pained even to his own ears, and he was glad that no one could see him. Unless he counted the mannequin, which he certainly did not. Even though he sometimes swore that she moved when he wasn't looking, he knew that it was only his mind playing tricks on him. Mannequins didn't move.

At least, they _shouldn't_ move.

Spinning around to face the lady in question, Erik was slightly disappointed that she was standing as still as ever in the corner. Her glass eyes caught the flickering candles that he had lit near her – or was that her amusement at the fact that, once again, she'd been too quick for him? One of these days he was going to catch the little minx in mid-motion. He just knew it.

Erik glowered at the packet of cream stationery that he still held. Did they even appreciate how difficult it was for a phantom to order things? He couldn't just ask them to send it to the Opera Populaire, care of the cellars. Erik only did business with the company because they stocked a pale ivory-colored paper with a black border. _That _was stationery worthy of an Opera Ghost. This was…

Fixable. Erik tilted his head and examined the paper more closely. He couldn't do a thing about the color, but it wasn't so bad, really. All he had to do was edge the sheets and envelopes in black, and next time he'd include a strongly worded letter with many exclamation points and underlined words detailing his order. That always seemed to work on Lefèvre.

Yanking at the ties of his cloak, Erik swept it from his shoulders and watched the fabric ripple as he draped it over the back of a chair. He might not have his fedora tossing perfected just yet, but at least he knew how to swish a cape for dramatic effect. _Still_, he acknowledged to himself as he traced the beading on the back of the garment with one finger, _there might be a_ little _room for improvement…_

He replaced the cloak around his lean frame, not bothering to tie it in place as he contemplated his options. Erik supposed that he could whip the cape over his head instead of removing it from the side; leaning forward a bit awkwardly, he snapped the cape over his shoulders and finished with a flourish. _Hmm_. It'd seemed like a good idea, but Erik felt more like a bull fighter than a seducer with that move. The improvised flourish, though, was a nice touch. He'd add that to his cape removal repertoire later.

He'd deal with the problem about the paper first though; he had notes to write. There were always so many of them; no one could say that he didn't earn his 20,000 francs a month with all of the scribbled orders he had to complete to make sure that his opera house ran smoothly! Lefèvre, the incompetent fool, would be absolutely lost without him. Perhaps it was time to think about requesting a small raise, or maybe his own office.

Erik chortled at that thought as he gathered the necessary supplies – a pot of black ink, his green feather quill pen, and the offending cream-colored stationery – and settled at his desk. It was a good thing that he was able to easily amuse himself; if the mannequin knew any jokes, she was keeping them to herself.

He glanced over his shoulder once more, but she hadn't noticeably moved. Erik sighed in exasperation – he'd catch her someday! – before returning to the work at hand.

Dipping his pen into the ink, Erik sketched the outline of a border on the paper and held it up for inspection. _Yes_, he thought to himself as he lowered it to the desk surface one more, _this will work after all_. He scribbled around the edges, quickly discovering that the work was rather amusing; he lightly wrote Lefèvre's name in the margins before gleefully eradicating it with his pen. Other names followed – Buquet, who was always trying to frighten the ballet girls by weaving fantastically untrue stories about the resident ghost; Reyer, who as an insufferable tyrant when it came to taking directions from him; and Carlotta, who would soon learn her place in the opera world – and Erik covered all of the names in dark ink as he edged the paper.

This was much more fun than tossing his fedora around the lair, and it was less dangerous to his health.

After several sheets, Erik ran out of enemies to scribble out, and so he wrote Christine's name in the margins. He surrounded it with flowers and hearts, his tongue licking the normal-shaped corner of his mouth as he dared to write his own name beneath hers with a grand gesture. He continued sketching with absolute delight, adding a cherub and several winged music notes, until he had filled the entire page with his doodling.

Well. That piece of paper certainly wouldn't be used for sending notes to Lefèvre.

Setting it aside, Erik finished the rest of his stationery in short order. Maybe he'd buy the cream stationery next time; he felt rather accomplished as he stared down at the now black-edged paper and matching envelopes. It had given him something to do for a little while, at least. He could only compose music and obsess about a certain Swedish soprano for so many hours of the day.

Speaking of whom…

Erik balefully eyed the fedora that still lay at the foot of his organ. Someday he hoped to bring Christine down to his lair for some quality…instruction time. Yes. That sounded completely unassuming and non-threatening. _Instruction time_. He rubbed his hands together at the thought.

Anyway, he needed to get better at tossing his fedora if he was going to impress the girl. Erik was no Don Juan, but he doubted that Christine would be awed if he threw his fedora and it bounced off the organ. It'd be even worse if he set the stupid hat on fire again. He wanted her to swoon at his feet because she was overcome with desire and longing for him, not because she was feeling light-headed due to smoke inhalation.

Christine's waxen imitation stood in the corner, her glass eyes gleaming mischievously. It was almost as if she was daring him to impress _her_. She'd certainly seen all of the times his fedora had landed on the floor – she'd even been witness to the disaster with the candles – and he could feel her silent mockery of his prowess.

He'd show her.

Scooping up the discarded hat, he planted it firmly on his head before stalking several paces away from the candelabra surrounding the organ. Sweeping the hat off, Erik's arm was steady as he crooked his elbow and sent the hat flying through the air.

It bounced off the candelabra closest to him with a dull thud before zooming back hard enough to hit the music box. The monkey's cymbals clanged together rather noisily, and Erik rushed over to make sure that it hadn't been damaged. Both monkey and fedora appeared to be fine, and Erik patted the monkey's furry head for a few seconds before shoving the hat onto his head again.

"That was a practice throw," he informed the mannequin before resuming his stance, glaring at her still-sparkling eyes. Infernal woman, laughing at his failures. Yes, he would show her. Erik imagined the real Christine sitting close by, her eyes fixed on him with a look that was nothing short of rapturous. He'd just performed the most seductive cape removal in the history of the world, and she would confess her eternal love and devotion to him if only he managed to clear the candelabra this time.

The hat seemed to sail across his lair in slow motion, and Erik brought his hand up to his deformed mouth as he watched nervously. The hat caught on the end of one of the metal candle holders and swished around a few times, coming dangerously close to landing on the floor once again. Erik bit his nails in suspense. The mannequin would never let him forget this if he didn't make it…

The fedora settled onto the candelabra and stayed.

Erik made a fist and pumped it into the air a few times in victory. "Yes!" he crowed loudly, turning around to face the mannequin. Was it just his imagination, or did her eyes seem duller now that he had finally triumphed? He half-bounced over to the figure, ready to rub his success into her waxen face – figuratively speaking, of course. He wouldn't want to damage the features that he had spent so many countless hours sculpting.

When he was close enough to the mannequin to see her eyes, however, he noticed that they were still gleaming with her characteristic mischievousness, although they were a bit more subdued than usual. "I suppose that you think it was luck," Erik sniffed, his voice full of wounded male pride. "That's how much _you _know."

Erik spent the rest of the afternoon practicing his fedora tossing, spying on the mannequin from the corners of his eyes every so often. She seemed content to silently watch him toss the fedora through the air, but her eyes appeared to flicker more whenever he missed his target.

Or maybe it was just the candles.

Yes. That must be it.


End file.
